Steps

Nobody wasted any time.

Nima, with great difficulty – he hadn’t thought it possible to lose so much progress in so little time – started attempting some cautious steps, clutching the sinks for support. Raven was right beside him, steadying him with a heavy, unyielding hand on his elbow. The contact was almost too much for Nima: he was put off by Raven’s closeness, the familiar tangle of emotions rushing back – irritation, compassion, and that stubborn little crush that never fully died down.

The last time they’d been this close, Nima had watched Raven cry. The shock of it left an imprint Nima couldn’t erase, mixed with a quiet heartache and a gnawing need to rethink everything he thought he knew about the boy. Especially after that stupid incident with River, which still made his chest twist whenever he remembered it.

Raven, for his part, didn’t look like himself at all. Gone was the swagger, the careless edge; beside Nima, he looked smaller, quieter, almost fragile. His eyes were fixed on the floor, following each of Nima’s faltering steps with hawk-like precision, as if he was afraid the boy might crumble at any second. And when Nima inevitably did – his legs trembling, his body folding toward the tiles – Raven was there, catching him effortlessly.

“Thank you,” Nima muttered, trying to coat it in sarcasm, but it came out too soft, a weird mash of gratitude and annoyance.

Raven just gave the smallest nod. “You shouldn’t push yourself this much, twig,” he mumbled. His tone was flat, but there was something – very vaguely – like worry beneath it.

Nima said nothing, just tightened his jaw and tried again, focusing on the row of sinks. He made it three steps before collapsing again, and once more Raven was there, steady arms catching him like it was nothing.

“You know,” Nima said, voice patient but tinged with something sharp, “you won’t be there every time I fall once we leave this place.”

Raven glanced at him, genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean I can’t? We’re all going together, no?” There was no sarcasm in his voice, just the flat certainty of someone who didn’t understand the question. He was simply that socially inept.

Nima rolled his eyes – though, truthfully, it looked more cute than annoyed – and forced himself forward again. His feet dragged, his chest ached, and his arms strained against the weight of his own body. Raven stayed with him silently, always a shadow at his side.

“Is something bothering you, Nima?” Raven asked after a long pause, his gaze still on the ground.

The sound of his own name in Raven’s mouth made Nima swallow hard, but he was too annoyed to show it. “I don’t know. I guess I find it pointless that you want to help me, when you can’t even help yourself.”

There was a stretch of silence, heavy and unsteady, and for once Raven looked lost. His brows pulled together like Nima had spoken a language he didn’t know.

Nima sighed, regretting the harshness but not enough to take it back. “I see you pulling away from everyone, acting all tough, and then I see you crumble. Waking up drenched in sweat, screaming like you’re being torn apart. And then that… whatever happened with River.” His voice sharpened, words spilling faster now. “Don’t even tell me you like him, because my legs might not work but my eyes are perfectly fine.”

His cheeks had flushed a furious red, freckles standing out like sparks, and his nose had gone cherry-bright. He was angry – not raging, not screaming, but the kind of anger that simmered tight in the chest, almost breaking through the cracks of his quiet nature. “And you refuse any kind of help. For what? To look tough? Oh, congrats. You’re so strong, Raven. I’m so impressed. I’m peeing my pants in admiration.”

It was the peak of his anger, and yet even now, it carried that strange demure softness that made it cut deeper than if he’d shouted.

Raven stared at him, mouth slightly open, brows furrowed, as if Nima had just insulted him in some incomprehensible dialect.

Nima took a deep, steadying breath. His voice dropped lower. “I just think you’re a better person than you think you are. And you don’t deserve what you’re doing to yourself.”

Raven’s face hardened. He shook his head slowly. “You have no idea the kind of person I am.”

Nima’s eyes lifted to his, and for once he didn’t flinch away. “Oh, I’m sure you think that. Because you’ve already decided I’m some angelic little thing. Fragile, dumb, unable to see the world for what it is. Well, news flash, Raven: I don’t need any more parents.” His voice cracked upward, small and sharp, almost comical in its high-pitched attempt at yelling, but the sincerity behind it burned.

He breathed in again, chest rising and falling fast. “You’re a good person, Raven. Whether you like it or not.”

For a moment the bathroom seemed too quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights pressing down on both of them. Nima’s eyes flicked to the crutches leaning by the door, handmade by Raven himself.

“And for that,” Nima said, softer now, “I’m sure you won’t leave things hanging with River. Correct?”

Raven’s eyes widened, surprise flickering raw and unguarded across his face. He looked down, as though the tiles might offer him a script, and then, almost reluctantly, nodded. His voice was low. “Correct.”